6. Jasmine
JASMINE
A couple of hours later, I’ve unpacked my entire life—which, turns out, doesn’t take long when it fits into three garbage bags.
The closet looks like a sad showroom display.
A few worn hoodies, some ripped jeans, a handful of crop tops that have survived every shitty laundromat in Mason Park, and one too-tight dress I never have the courage—or occasion—to wear.
That’s it. Spread across this walk-in closet like it’s supposed to mean anything.
I have to see if Cast’s financial kindness spreads to adding some more clothes into my closet, maybe some clothes from Macy’s instead of Walmart.
I wander back into the bedroom. The sun is beginning to dip outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, flooding the whole space in golden light like I’m trapped in a perfume commercial.
I groan and flop onto the bed, arms stretched out, legs splayed like a starfish. The mattress swallows me instantly, way too soft for its own good, and a traitorous moan slips out of my throat—low, involuntary, embarrassing.
“This bed is a crime,” I mutter. “It’s a trap. No one should sleep this well.”
Still. It doesn’t matter how soft it is. Or how expensive. Or how many thread counts the damn comforter has. The silence is louder.
No Willow. No Tommy. No Derek or stupid midnight-shift fryers. I’d even take Landon’s obnoxiously smooth London accent—the one that grates on my nerves and curls my toes at the same damn time.
Normally, around now, I’d be slipping into that itchy polyester uniform and heading out for my night shift at Lucy’s Chicken Swamp—home of over-salted fries and the greasiest burgers in Mason Park.
Derek and I used to take turns betting on which customer would scream first, or which fryer would explode.
But I had to quit.
Two days after almost being kidnapped, the Italians showed up asking for me—pretending to be family, fake cousins with slick smiles and itchy intentions.
Derek lied without blinking, told them he’s never met a Willow in his life, much less a blonde girl with pink streaks.
He plays dumb like a pro, and I absolutely love him for it.
Now? I’m safe. I’m “taken care of.” Financially stable, with a fridge full of groceries I didn’t pay for, and none of my mother’s drug-addicted, or drug-selling boyfriends to wrestle out of the hallway at 2 a.m.
But fuck… happiness is kind of boring.
No drama. No chaos. No rats in the kitchen or bills taped to the fridge like threats. Just… routine.
Eat. Sleep. School. Survive.
Repeat.
It’s better. I know it’s better. But it doesn’t feel better.
At least back at the trailer park, I had people.
Nights with friends huddled around a cracked fire pit, burning marshmallows and swapping gossip.
Movie marathons with borrowed DVDs. Willow teaching me how to paint, both of us covered in more acrylic than the canvas.
Playing Fuck, Marry, Kill until our sides hurt from laughing.
Now? Nothing.
No noise. No color. No mess.
Just me, this too-perfect apartment, and a silence that doesn't feel like peace—it feels like a padded cage.
I groan, burying my head into the pillow, because according to his Royal Highness Master Landon , I can’t leave until he comes home.
I roll over, grab my phone off the nightstand, and hit his contact for like the tenth time today.
One ring. Two. Straight to voicemail.
Hey, it’s Lan. Leave a message at the beep.
“Bastard,” I hiss, sitting up in bed and letting my feet hang over the side as I hang up the phone. I stare at the hardwood floor for a beat, then rub my hands over my face like it’ll scrub off the boredom sinking into my skin.
This is college. College . I’m eighteen, technically alive, and probably sitting less than five miles away from bad decisions and lukewarm jungle juice.
There’s got to be a party tonight. Somewhere. Always is.
And if there’s not? I’ll start one.
I stand, stretch, and pace toward the closet—eyeing the sad excuse for a wardrobe like maybe it’ll look different if I squint. It doesn’t. But I can work with it. I always have.
A party means people. Music. Making out with a hot girl that will push Landon so far out of my mind he cliff dives into the next universe.
An hour later, I’m freshly showered and tying up my black corset top. I’ve matched the corset with fishnets under baggy, horrendously ripped jeans and my hand-me-down black combat heels and some matching cheap silver chunky chains.
A little mascara. A quick fluff of my wavy hair into a slick high ponytail. Done.
I look hot. Ridiculously hot. The kind of hot that says I’m not just here to make out with a girl in the corner—I’m here to ruin someone’s whole life and walk away smiling. I fucking live!
The moment I step outside, the humid air wraps around me like a dare, thick and electric, but I don’t even need to check a flyer or ask around.
I just follow the distant thump of bass and the flicker of bad lighting until I’m standing in front of a three-story house lit up like someone gave a bunch of rich white boys access to a couple of keggers and zero adult supervision.
The flag out front says Beta Tau Delta.
The smell? Cheap beer, testosterone, and Axe body spray.
The vibe? Exactly the kind of chaos I’m in the mood for.
A guy in a backwards cap gives me a slow once-over from the porch steps, eyes dragging over my outfit like he’s never seen fishnets outside of a Halloween costume.
He nods like I’ve passed some unspoken dress code—hot girl privilege unlocked—and waves me in with a red solo cup like a blessing from the Pope of Bro Culture.
“Yo,” he slurs, already leaning too far into my space. “You know anyone here? Or are you just, like… destiny or something?”
I blink. “Seriously?”
He grins, swaying slightly. “I mean, I could be your destiny. Or at least your mistake?”
I smile sweetly. “I need, like, three more drinks before I make a mistake like you.”
He laughs, loud and sloppy, clearly not understanding sarcasm. One heavy arm drops over my shoulder like we’ve known each other for years, and he yells into the chaos of the house, “Yo! Someone get this girl, like, six shots— stat! ”
“Whoa,” I giggle, tapping his chest twice with two fingers and sliding from underneath his sweaty ass arm. “Let’s start with two.”
Then I step around him without another glance, letting the throb of bass swallow his disappointed “Damn.”
A beat later, I hear him hoot like I just made his whole night and shout back into the house, “We got new blood!”
The door swings shut behind me, and I step into what can only be described as a live-action fever dream.
This party looks like it crawled straight out of a 2000s frat comedy and injected itself with twice the testosterone.
Shirtless guys in cowboy hats and cut-off jeans are hanging from exposed wooden beams like monkeys on Red Bull.
There’s a slip-and-slide running through the living room —lined with beer cans and what might be baby oil—and a girl in denim shorts and glittery cowboy boots is riding an inflatable bull in the middle of the hallway, screaming, “ I am the storm! ” like her life depends on it.
A terrible B-side remix of a pop song that should have stayed dead blasts through the speakers and everyone’s shrieking along off-key like it’s the national anthem.
A naked guy— completely naked—streaks past me with toilet paper tied around his head like a warband. I leap back instinctively and crash into some guy who smells like cinnamon schnapps and body spray. He leans in, way too close, and sniffs my neck like a bloodhound.
“You smell so good,” he slurs, eyes glassy and dilated. “Wanna make out?”
I blink. “Yeah, no.”
I shove past him before he can offer me anything else, weaving through a mass of tangled limbs and spilled drinks as I make my way deeper into the chaos.
Yeah. This is definitely the kind of college experience I’d be missing if it weren’t for the Italian mob, my loyalty to Willow, and a British stalker who thinks he owns me.
Lucky me .
I make my way into the kitchen, dodging a guy in a horse mask and a spilled beer waterfall, only to freeze at the doorway.
A guy is wedged between a girl’s thighs as she sits on the kitchen counter, his hand clamped around her bare thigh like he’s in pain—or like letting go might kill him. His fingers twitch like he’s barely hanging on, face twisted in desperation..
The girl, though? Both hands buried in his hair, gripping tight, dragging him closer with the kind of force usually reserved for bar fights. She yanks his mouth to hers, devouring him like she’s starving and he’s the last meal on Earth.
They’re not kissing. They’re performing an exorcism—with tongue.
I just stand there, blinking, because I’ve heard the term sucking face before, but I never understood it—until now. This? This is suction-level intimacy . They might fuse if they’re not lucky.
“I bet you ten bucks his hand doesn’t make it under her skirt,” a voice drawls beside me—slow, sweet, and drenched in honey-soaked southern charm.
The words roll over me like warm sunlight, and I turn my head—and nearly forget how to breathe.
Because standing there, leaning casually against the fridge with a plastic cup in hand and the confidence of someone who knows exactly how hot she is, is the most beautiful girl I have ever witnessed in my entire fucking life.
Her red hair tumbles in loose waves around her shoulders, catching the flickering kitchen light like it’s trying to set itself on fire.
Her curves are the kind that make your hands twitch, soft in all the right places and framed perfectly by a cute jean mini skirt, black worn-in cowboy boots and a crop top that says power bottom -- good thing I’m a top ain’t it?
But worst of all, her golden hazel eyes are so vibrant I have to look away, even though she is smiling like I’ve already said something funny, despite the fact that I haven’t even opened my mouth yet.
Holy shit.